Seasons of Gray
by Cke1st
Summary: A series of short stories about our characters in their golden years.
1. Chapter 1

**Seasons of Gray** Chapter 1

I need to go flying again. It's the only thing that takes the years away.

Toothless is always happy to go flying with me, of course. He hasn't changed; he still jumps and snorts and butts me with his nose if I don't move fast enough. But he's realized that I can't move as fast as I used to, and he doesn't butt me as hard as _he_ used to, or he'll knock me over. My good leg isn't that much better than my bad leg anymore.

Astrid watches from the window. I always ask if she wants to go with us, and she always declines. I don't think she'll ever get over losing Stormfly, and riding another dragon is just a painful reminder to her. There are days when I think she might have chosen to endure that wasting sickness herself, rather than watch her dragon go through it. But she wasn't offered that choice.

Dear, sweet, faithful Astrid. Ever since the day when she virtually proposed marriage by kissing me in front of the whole town, she's been beside me through everything. She's given me three strong sons and a lovely daughter; our firstborn, Erik, is now chief in my place. She's kept our household going during my many absences, and she was always the first thing I wanted to see when I came home. When the nightmares come and I wake up screaming, she holds me in the dark and reminds me that the Red Death has been dead for sixty years now.

The years have been kind to her; she looks as beautiful to me now as she did as a slender young teen, fighting fires and fighting dragons. I tell her so, every chance I get. She always hits me in the arm and says, "_That's_ for lying!" It's more of a half-hearted swat now. I don't know if it's because she's no longer strong enough to make a bruise, or because she no longer wants to make one.

Slowly I strap on the old saddle and riding gear. My fingers aren't as nimble as they once were. I can still see traces of the tooling I'd worked into the leather, all those years ago, and I marvel that I could do that kind of workmanship once. Most of the pieces have been replaced several times, of course; leather wears out when it's heavily used, and few items of leatherwork in this town have seen more use over the years than Toothless' saddle. Almost none of it is original anymore, but there are still a few scraps left from that first saddle I cobbled together when no one else was looking.

I pause for a moment and look around. Berk is solid and prosperous now, thanks to my son's leadership, and home to a lot more people than when I was an underdeveloped teenager. But I recognize fewer and fewer of them. My children and their playmates are now the town's leading citizens. My own playmates are old, like me. And all the adults, who were the anchors of the town when I was growing up... they've all gone to Valhalla or the Fólkvangr field. My father, reunited at last with Mom; Gobber, my teacher and mentor, now probably hammering out swords for Odin's best; all my friends' parents; all of them, gone.

Toothless is getting impatient. I don't think he really understands about humans and aging. He hasn't aged a bit; he can be as playful with our grandchildren as he once was with me. No one knows how long Night Furies live, or how they change as they get older. Toothless has gotten about three inches longer in the past sixty years. That doesn't mean much because we don't know how old he was when I first met him. He might be a little younger than me, or he might be centuries old already.

The view from the top of this hill is magnificent, like it always was. This was my father's house, and it became mine when I took his place. By right and by tradition, it should have gone to Erik when I stepped down and he became the chief. But he refused it. "We can live anywhere, Dad, but this is the only house in town that's big enough for a dragon." He never really understood how it is with me and Toothless – he thinks of my scaly friend as a sort of pony with wings – but at least he knows how important my friend is to me. That kind of understanding, plus some Haddock stubbornness and some Hofferson determination, has made him a fine chief. I'm proud to call him my son, and I've told him so on many occasions.

"I'm almost done, bud. Just be patient for another minute." What's his hurry? It's not like we're likely to bump into anyone we know. My old friends don't race any more, anyway. Snotlout went on raids until he found a town he liked, proclaimed himself the new chief, and did surprisingly well for himself. His funeral ship sailed just last year. He'd requested that one of Hookfang's offspring light the fire.

Fishlegs never made it as a warrior, but he found his niche when we started making trade agreements with other villages (a process that was one of my own better accomplishments). He became a merchant, and quite a successful one. He's retired now, of course, but he can still cloak Ruffnut in a fine new fur coat every year.

Tuffnut never quite found his niche, either in raiding or trading. He married into a well-off family, got a hefty dowry, and spent most of it. Now he sits in a rocking chair in front of his house and tells his flock of grandchildren about his glory days, when he brought down the Red Death single-handed. He's been telling that story for so long, I think he believes it himself.

I tighten the last strap, and we're ready. I don't spring onto Toothless' back any more; it takes me a minute. My artificial leg never quite healed, and it hurts more every year. But finally, I get centered in the saddle, the metal foot locks into the stirrup, and I lean forward to brace myself against his flying leap into the sky.

We've done this thousands of times, and it never gets tired. I feel him tense up, and then he springs. The ground falls away, and all the years fall away as well. Suddenly I'm fifteen again, and I'm riding a dragon for the first time, and the rush of air in my face is something new and exciting.

People on the ground wave at us. There's no mistaking us, no matter how many dragons make their homes in Berk now; we've never found another Night Fury. Sometimes I wonder if Toothless ever feels lonely. But he's never complained, at least not in any way that I recognize.

Sometimes the younger dragon-riders come up to race me. Maybe they think it will be an easy win for them, because I'm old and slow. But they underestimate my amazing dragon every time. Toothless is still undefeated. I guess that means I'm undefeated, too. Not bad for an old man.

There are days when I feel like doing some of the crazy tricks we used to do, like unhooking my flying belt and free-falling for half a mile with Toothless right beside me. Astrid has solemnly promised to beat me to a pulp if I ever try any of those stunts again. I know she says it because she cares about me. But, come on! I might be slowing down, but Toothless is just as capable of protecting me now as he ever was. Still, I hate to worry her. I've given her enough worries already, with plenty to spare. She's given everything for me; I'll give up a little fun for her.

Today, we won't do anything fancy; we'll just fly. "Just fly"? I can still remember the days when the very idea of flying on dragons was ridiculous. Toothless and I changed all that, pretty much all by ourselves. To the kids growing up today, the idea of "just going for a ride" on a dragon seems tame. Of course, they've never "just gone for a ride" on a Night Fury.

Let's go higher, bud. Bring me those clouds. You and the clouds haven't changed.

And when I close my eyes, and feel the wind in my face, and feel you there underneath me, there are moments when I can convince myself that I haven't changed, either.


	2. Chapter 2

**Seasons of Gray** Chapter 2

Call me Fishlegs. I don't know what else you could call me, because that's my name, and it always has been. I guess it's a weird name, but I've had a few decades to get used to it.

I just saw Toothless fly by. I don't know how Hiccup does it. We're the same age, but I have to struggle to get out of my chair sometimes, and there he goes, punching holes in the clouds on a Night Fury! Maybe the dragon helps him stay young.

I'm not saying it's unfair, mind you. If he can still keep some of his youth, after all the things he's been through, he's entitled to it. I wouldn't want to walk some of the roads that he's walked. From two kids who were both on the verge of failing Dragon Training, our paths went in totally different directions.

Everybody knew Hiccup would be the next chief of the village, unless something ate him first. Nobody knew what Fishlegs would grow up to be, especially Fishlegs. I figured I'd be some kind of warrior, but my heart just wasn't in it. I was much happier being friends with the dragons than being their enemies. I think I did a better job of being a friend to them than an enemy, too.

And, boy, did they ever repay me for it!

When Hiccup arranged that first trade deal with the village to the south, I gathered all my saved money and bought some leather goods – belts, women's pocketbooks, stuff like that – to sell to our new neighbors. "Everybody sells leather," my dad told me. "You need something different, something special, or you're going to lose all your money."

Okay, sure. Something different. I never did this before; how do I know what's different? I got my answer when I visited Astrid while she was shining up her dragon's scales. Stormfly had just shed a couple, and they were lying on the ground. "That might be something different," I thought. So I sewed a blue Nadder scale onto one of the pocketbooks.

That pocketbook was about the only thing I sold on that trip, and I still made a profit on the voyage. I might not be the greatest merchant who ever lived, but even then, I knew a good thing when it hit me between the eyes. I asked all of Berk's Nadder riders if I could collect their shed scales. On our next trip, I put dragon scales on everything, and I came back from that trip with more money than I knew what to do with.

That was also the trip that opened Ruffnut's eyes. The way I figure it, every girl wants a guy who can take care of her if she can't take care of herself, even a fighter like Ruff. She was thinking of protection in terms of swords and shields. But when she saw the results of that second trading voyage, I think she realized that there's more than one way a guy can take care of a girl.

When I returned from the third voyage, she met me at the docks. "You've got _way_ more money than any Viking has a right to have!" she said loudly. Then she leaned in and whispered, "I like that."

Like I said, I know a good thing when it hits me between the eyes. I spoke to my parents, she spoke to hers, and the engagement was made. Her twin brother wasn't so sure I was a good idea, but he changed his mind when he saw the ermine-trimmed sable fur coat I gave her as a morning-gift. She liked that, too. I've given her a new fur coat every year, and as long as she keeps liking them, I'll keep giving them to her.

Don't get me wrong; it wasn't all smooth sailing right out of the harbor. There was one time when she hit me, and expected me to hit her back, and I wouldn't do it. She really expected a whack on the head, because that's what her brother would have done. When I wouldn't do it, she ran headfirst into the wall and knocked herself silly. I ran over and picked her up to make sure she was okay, and she got mad at me!

"If you'd have hit me, this wouldn't have happened!" she said.

"I'm never going to hit you," I answered.

"You're no fun," she said, and stalked away, weaving a bit.

But we worked it out. I never did hit her. Except for that one time with the door, and that was an accident. She never let me forget it, though. "You did it once; why can't you do it again?" I just wasn't raised that way. I can think of better things to do with a girl than hit her. I even listened to her sometimes when she gave me trading advice. She was right half the time, and the other half... nobody's perfect.

Some traders fall in love with money. I never made that mistake. Maybe that's because, between Ruff and Meatlug, my heart was already full. Trading was more of a game with me. I wanted to be the first to make deals in a new town, the first to sell something new, the first to impress somebody important in a new land. The money was almost an afterthought. Mind you, I said "almost."

Probably the best idea I ever had was almost an accident. We were visiting a new tribe for the first time, and we weren't sure what kind of welcome we'd get. Ruff asked if I could get her a fancy dress for the occasion. On a whim, I added dragon scales around the shoulders and the neck. "That will look really nice with the scales polished up," she commented.

"Yeah, it will," I said, "but you know what? Dragon scales are tougher than hard leather. If we get there and somebody starts flinging weapons around, those scales will stop a thrown knife, but you won't _look_ armored." I made sure the dress had one extra-large, extra-pretty scale to cover her heart.

It turned out that this tribe was still walking on the wild side. They didn't give us any trouble, but they had lots of neighbors who _loved_ to make trouble. Yeah, I know a good thing. When I let it be known that my wife was modeling a dress that could knock 'em dead and save her life at the same time... Four of their ladies wanted to buy the dress right off her back! I went home from that trip with so many orders for dragon-dresses, I had to hire extra seamstresses to make them all. Even Astrid wanted one for special occasions. Ruff got _two_ fur coats that year. Those dresses were my best-sellers until the day I retired, and our sons are still selling them as fast as they can make them.

So, yeah, the dragons have given me back at least as much as I gave them.

Sigh. Those dragons. When we divided up the dragons in the training ring, all those years ago, how could I have known I'd chosen the kind with the shortest life-span? When we saw how many eggs Meatlug laid, compared to other dragons, that should have been a clue. She gave me the best years of her life, but there were less than twenty of those years left. I've been through three more Gronckles since then. They're all special, and they're all beautiful (to me).

When Barf and Belch reached the end of their life, Ruff said we should get our own Zippleback and ride it as husband and wife. I thought about it, but I've got Gronckles in my blood now. She trained a Nadder instead, and she keeps that dragon's scales so polished, I could use them for a mirror when I shave. Not that I have to shave that much; I never did grow a proper Viking beard. Ruff says she can't imagine me with a beard anyway.

You're wondering what she does with all those fur coats? She always keeps the newest ones, and a couple that she really likes (and that first one, of course). The others get handed down to one of our daughters. Ruff gave me five of those, and two sons, too. I never thought of Ruff as the motherly type, but she surprised me (_and_ her brother, _and_ her parents, _and_ everybody else). Most of our kids are built like their mother, so they can wear her coats, no problem. I love seeing them in their mother's furs. It reminds me of her.

It looks like most of our grandkids are going to be built like me, though. We've got thirteen so far, and we're letting everybody know we need one more to break the unlucky number. Vigdis, our second daughter, will probably come through for us. That girl _does_ love babies! I think she got it from her mother.

Sometimes I think about the six of us crazy teenagers, back in the day, training and riding dragons for the first time in history. We didn't have the slightest idea what we were doing. I don't just mean we didn't understand about dragons. We didn't understand how we were changing the way Vikings live. We started doing it because we had to, and we kept doing it because it was fun.

If we'd known what was going to happen, would we have climbed onto those dragons anyway? If I'd known about all those dangerous Dragon Training Academy missions, if I'd known about having to fight the Outcasts, if I'd known about the heartache of saying goodbye to Meatlug, would I do it all over again?

Surely you jest. I wouldn't trade this life for all the gold in Berk.

Maybe that's not saying much, seeing how most of the gold in Berk is mine anyway. But it's been an awesome life. I have to thank Hiccup for some of that, Meatlug for some more, and Ruff for a lot of it.

For the rest, it's the same lesson I tried to learn all my adult life, and I hope my kids have gotten it. It's not enough to just know everything; I tried that in dragon training, and look where it got me. It's all about knowing what matters, and then using that knowledge to gain an advantage.

It worked for Hiccup. That's how he killed the Red Death, all those years ago. It's how he became such a good chief, and such a good father. I think that's how he and his dragon are still flying when the rest of us are stuck in our rocking chairs.

For me, it's made me rich, and it's made me happy. The two are kind of tied together for me, but if I had to choose, happy is better. Yeah. Definitely better.


End file.
